Crashing Down
by Stargazer Nataku
Summary: To say he was worried was an understatement. And with each night that passed, his hope faded still more.


**Title**: Crashing Down (1/1)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: G  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Jim Gordon, Bruce Wayne/Batman  
Summary: To say he was worried was an understatement. And with each night that passed, his hope faded still more.

**Author's Note:** This takes place in the Nolanverse an indeterminate amount of time after the end of _The Dark Knight, _and also makes the assumption that there was never any such person as Robin or Batgirl. Just Batman and his mission.

_**Crashing Down**_

_**By**_

_**Stargazer Nataku**_

Gotham City police commissioner James Gordon woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing beside the chair where he was recuperating, his back protesting as he turned slightly to see who was calling, bandages covering the wounds pulling on sensitized skin. It was Stephens, and Gordon hesitated only a heartbeat before pushing the button to silence the call, knowing the man was calling to inquire about his well being. He was not ready or willing to talk about what had happened, though nothing else had been on his mind in the eight days since.

The scene played itself over and over, the situation rapidly devolving again and again in his mind. The phone call had come in the middle of the night, the officer on the other end of the phone stammering something about a mass riot at Arkham Asylum that had caused the commissioner to rush downtown, knowing the death toll was already rising and more people were being held hostage by the worst Gotham City had to offer.

The rain had been torrential, his windshield wipers barely able to keep up; it took him twice as long to make it to the scene than it would have in decent weather, each minute that passed on the clock increasing his anxiety, knowing full well that every second cost lives. Soaked the instant he got out of the car, he found Stephens already there, arguing with the head of the SWAT team. He had ordered them to get him caught up to speed, then gave his own orders and waited for his men to get into position.

He had nearly missed the Batman's arrival, only a slight movement out of the corner of his eye indicated that the man was there. His eyes had followed the fluttering shadow as it moved towards the building, disappearing into the darkness of the asylum. He had ordered his men to step up their own preparations, his anxiety spiking; Batman was a fierce opponent, but at least half of the high-security cells had opened and there was a limit to what any man could face, no matter how strong.

He remembered turning to give the orders to breach the Asylum, speaking only a few words, before he was blasted backwards from the force of the explosion which rattled the entire building, the side towards the main line of the police shattering outward with enough force to knock him off his feet.

When he had come to, he was being tended to and Stephens was firmly in charge of the situation. The paramedics had ordered him to the hospital for stitches and observation, and he had been in no position to argue, the concussion he had sustained when his head hit the ground muddling his thoughts just enough to make him worthless. A night in the hospital and he had been sent home with orders to rest. He had, at least during the day. Every evening brought him into his garden, where he sit on the small bench amongst his rosebushes, waiting well into the night for a man that had not yet come.

To say he was worried was an understatement. And with each night that passed, his hope faded still more.

He knew Batman had been in the building. Since then, since the explosion, there had been no contact, not even a text message…Gordon's stomach twisted into knots, his hands clenching and his eyes closing for a brief moment. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to reassure himself with empty words that he had used so many times before with people missing family members.

_We don't know either way. There's still a chance. Don't give up on hope._

And yet every time he had said those words, he had followed them in his own mind with others. This time was no different.

_He's dead, that's all there is to it. People never come back alive after being missing in Gotham. All we can do now is find out what happened and give them that measure of peace. _

He had never believed those kind words spoken to mourning, worried families. And only once in his long years had he ever been entirely wrong. Bruce Wayne's case had been all over the headlines, and Gordon could remember telling Stephens how sorry he was the man was dead when Wayne had first disappeared. Seven years had passed, and Gordon had all but forgotten, save the occasional nightmare of the boy sitting in the captains office, tragic eyes again falling on his younger self.

Gordon had been surprised when the man had come back, splashed across the headlines as though he had never left, taking Gotham by storm. Since, he had never remained out of the public's eye for long. Even now, after…

Gordon shook his head and picked up the newspapers from his kitchen table and went into the yard, lowering herself slowly into a well-padded deck chair. Setting aside the Gotham Globe, he glanced at the headline of the Gazette, unsurprised that it was continuing the running tally of how many inmates were still at large. He sighed, and unfolded the paper, skimming the headlines hiding below the fold, the main one asking "WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO WAYNE ENTERPRISES?", the byline further stating that "BRUCE WAYNE'S DEATH PUTS FUTURE ON HOLD." Gordon had already skimmed the articles, but there was scarcely anything new in them that had not been repeated in the four days since Bruce Wayne had died in a fiery car crash in the Palisades. Even in death, the young man was all over the papers, only kept out of the banner headline by the seriousness of the Arkham incident. What a waste, and hadn't his people warned Wayne repeatedly about reckless driving?

Gordon sighed and went back to the main article on the Arkham inmates. He was well into the third page of articles on the situation when a clearing of a throat at the garden entrance from the driveway caused Gordon to lower his paper, expecting Stephens to be standing there to scold him for not answering his phone. Instead, he found a man of roughly fifty, with salt and pepper hair and an impeccably clean and unwrinkled black Armani suit. "Pardon me," he said, shifting the leather briefcase he held from his right hand to his left. "Are you Mr. James Gordon?"

"I am," Jim said, setting aside the paper and rising slowly to his feet.

"My name is Frederick Marshall," the man said, shaking Gordon's hand in a businesslike manner. "I am the lawyer concerned with the late Mr. Bruce Wayne's estate."

"Okay…" Gordon said with a frown, wondering why this man had come to see him, of all people.

"I have some matters of which I must speak to you, if you have some time."

"Sure," Gordon responded. "Um, why don't we go in the kitchen? Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you, no," the man said, following Gordon through the sliding screen door into the kitchen. He rinsed his hands as the man seated himself at the Formica table in the corner and opened his briefcase to draw out some papers. Gordon glanced at them discreetly, wondering what was on them, but did not seat himself until he had started a pot of coffee. "Did Mr. Wayne ever speak to you concerning his arrangements?" the man asked without further ado.

"No," Gordon answered, bewildered. "Why would he? We only met a handful of times and were, at best, acquaintances."

"Indeed," the man said. "Well, that is most untoward. You see, Mr. Gordon, about a year ago, Mr. Wayne came to see me to rewrite his will. Until that point, everything had been left to Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, but since his death made such arrangements untenable, Mr. Wayne quite obviously needed to change the beneficiary of his estate." Something that was akin to confusion and panic started rising in Jim Gordon, with confusion perhaps being the stronger emotion. "While Mr. Wayne's business interests were left to Mr. Lucius Fox, he has left Wayne Manor itself and a sizeable amount of his fortune to you, Mr. Gordon."

"To…me?" Gordon asked. "But…but why?"

"That was not my place to ask, Mr. Gordon. If Mr. Wayne himself did not tell you, I am afraid there is nothing further I can say in regards to the matter."

"But…" He tried to wrap his mind around it, tried to understand what could have driven the billionaire to do such a thing when he surely had older and better friends than Jim Gordon, who he had met only briefly the few times they met at all.

"It is all in hand, Mr. Gordon. I have the paperwork here with me, and with signatures we can get everything legally turned over to you this afternoon. Then, assuming you are agreeable, we can drive out to the manor and you can ensure that everything listed in the will is present and accounted for."

"There has to be some mistake!" Gordon protested.

"I assure you, Mr. Gordon, there has been no mistake. These were Master Wayne's explicit wishes. Now, shall we?" Unable to find any grounds to continue protesting, Gordon simply went along with the lawyer's guidance, wondering when he was going to wake up. Throughout the rest of the process, he moved as if in a dream, signing here and reading there, until the man was satisfied and the last of the many papers were locked away in the briefcase. "Now, Mr. Gordon, did you have time to come with me out to the manor, or would you like to schedule an appointment for another time?"

"No, now is fine," Gordon said. "Just…uh…just let me change clothes." He went upstairs to his bedroom, and stared at his closet for a moment before deciding on one of his better suits. Dressing quickly, he went back downstairs and, still in a daze, followed the man out to the car. Both were silent in the drive out to Wayne Manor, Gordon still attempting to process the questions whirling around in his mind, the lawyer uninterested in anything save the details of completing a client's last wishes.

The check through the house was quicker than Gordon thought it would be, and he soon found himself back in Wayne's…no, _his_…foyer. "Very well, Mr. Gordon," the man said. "Will you be staying or shall I give you a ride back to your home?"

"I...I'll find my own way back," he told the man.

"Very good, sir. Oh, and one last thing…" he drew an envelope out of his inner jacket pocket. "Mr. Wayne instructed me to give you this once we were at the manor itself." Gordon took it, acknowledged the man's departure with a handshake and a nod, and in a moment found himself alone in Wayne Manor –it would never stop being _Wayne _Manor no matter how long he owned it—with the letter in his hand. He stared at the envelope a moment before opening it, finding a note in neat cursive handwriting he assumed was Wayne's.

_Jim,_

_I imagine everything has come as somewhat as a shock to you, but understand I could not warn you this may happen. Once Frederick has left and you're alone in the house, go to the first floor study and play the enclosed notes on the piano. Then, everything will be clear to you. I trust you to manage everything as you see best. Thank you for everything, my friend._

_Bruce_

Gordon had hoped for an explanation, but there was none readily apparent, the short letter raising more questions than it answered. Friend? The word was far too strong for their relationship. With a frown, he made his way to the first floor study, examining the piano with some trepidation, wondering if this was Wayne's idea of a joke. With a mental shrug he studied the diagram and played the three sets of tones indicated, grimacing a bit at the harshness of the combination.

A door, seamlessly hidden on the wall, slid open to reveal a dark passageway. "What the hell?" Gordon asked aloud, stepping over to it and studying the darkness beyond. A momentary wish for a flashlight passed when, at the end of a short hallway, a light turned on to reveal a metal platform. An elevator. "What the _hell?_" Gordon repeated, moving cautiously down to study it. The darkness beneath was deep and for a moment he wondered if he really ought to do this. In the end, however, curiosity got the better of him and he sent the elevator moving down into the blackness below.

It hit the bottom with a bump, and in an instant he was momentarily blinded by light after light turning on. When his vision cleared, he found he could do nothing but stare incredulously, his mind recognizing what he was seeing while, at the same time, refusing to admit the possibility.

A huge tanklike vehicle Gordon remembered well, having driven it before, sat to the right. Huge banks of computers sat to his left. And from a case directly front of him, leaving no doubt, the mask of the Batman stared back at him soullessly, empty.

For a long moment he stood shocked, his heart pounding, feet rooted in place, the pieces of the puzzle the years had offered falling neatly into place. The reason why Batman had chosen him, of all people, was clarified by a child's terrified eyes taking in his younger self as he tucked a coat around the suffering boy's shoulders. The reason why Wayne had left him everything now, after it no longer did him any good, as a repayment…reward?...for years of fighting together, unbeknownst to him. Perhaps it was for the many personal sacrifices he had made in aiding the Batman in his quest. Perhaps it was because he had trusted Gordon to dispose of all this without making the man's identity public. It all made sense now, in ways it never would have without the ability to stand here, in the heart of the man's mission, the fractured pieces of the entire picture finally put in place.

The true blow of Bruce Wayne's tragic death came crashing down upon him as he realized just what he had lost when Wayne drove his car off the road and died in the corresponding conflagration. He knew now, more than anything, that it had not been an accident. The Batman, probably wounded and knowing he would die, had purposefully gotten in the car and driven himself into that tree to hide any evidence of wounds uncharacteristic of a typical accident. Or perhaps he had had someone else take his dead body, strip it of this uniform and dress it in everyday clothes before sending the car with it's already deceased occupant careening down the hill into the tree, encouraging the fire by lighting it themselves.

Gordon would never know. Truthfully, he didn't want to.

Rather than thinking about it, he instead crossed to the bank of monitors and seated himself slowly in the computer chair in front of the keyboard, looking around him with a mixture of grief and awe, his legs shaking as the true meaning of everything began to sink in. After years of fighting together, years of dedication and late nights and anxiety and fear, it was over. Never again would Batman coming swooping down onto the roof of the MCU when Gordon switched on the Batsignal. Never again would he arrive in the nick of time to rescue a situation rapidly spiraling out of control.

Never again. Never.

Putting his head into his hands, Jim Gordon wept not only for the friend he had lost, but for the one he never knew he had.

**Author's Note: Plot bonny attacks, Nataku complies in what little free time she has. Finding time to write non-school stuff is hard as a PhD candidate. I have become more and more convinced over years of graduate school that free time is, in fact, a largely mythical creature that does not really exist. I'd like to be proven wrong, however. At any rate, thanks for reading! :-D **


End file.
